“That’s what I said.”

“I THOUGHT EXECUTIVE OFFICERS WERE THE SECOND-IN-COMMAND.”

“No,” Rogers said. “That’s only for water navy. We’re in the space navy. It’s different.”

“THAT’S REALLY CONFUSING.”

Rogers shrugged. “More confusing than a marine captain being the same rank as a navy lieutenant, but a marine lieutenant being the same rank as a navy ensign?” Rogers laughed, hoping to draw Ralph into his confidence through humor, but Ralph didn’t even seem to notice that Rogers had told a joke.

Clearing his throat, Rogers looked around the room, which he wasn’t even sure was fit for human occupancy. Dark, ink-stained metal walls framed just enough space for a small bed, a nightstand, and the computer terminal at which Ralph was currently sitting. A single light bulb dangled from a wire from the ceiling, swaying back and forth. The walls were packed from floor to ceiling with different posters, all of them incomplete. One particular poster appeared to be a blank piece of paper. In general, they seemed to be misprints—one had a picture of a Thelicosan battle cruiser broken in half that had the caption SINK THEIR SHIT underneath it. The adjacent poster had a picture of a toilet that had the caption SINK THEIR SHIP.

“WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU, LIEUTENANT? I DON’T GET MANY VISITORS.”

“It’s kind of a hard place to find,” Rogers said.

In fact, it was nearly impossible to find. It wasn’t on any of the schematic maps of the ship, and everyone he asked seemed to know that the 331st had an information operations squadron, but had no idea where it was. As it turned out, he had to use the in-line on the training deck and manually stop it, climb out the hatch, and crawl down a tunnel just to get to the office door.

“I was wondering who commissioned all of these posters,” Rogers said. “There are an awful lot of them around the ship.” Rogers was secretly scanning the room, looking for anything that might resemble a listening device. It made sense to start looking at the guy making the posters, but every second he hung out in this cramped space, it seemed less likely that Ralph was the culprit.

“ALL MY ORDERS COME IN ELECTRONICALLY,” Ralph said/screamed. “I’VE BEEN VERY BUSY.”

“I can tell,” Rogers said. “I really admire your art. Where do you get your inspiration?”

Who makes you spout this garbage? Rogers wanted to ask.

“ART ISN’T ABOUT INSPIRATION,” Ralph said. “IT’S ABOUT RECEIVING SPECFIC AND ORDERLY INSTRUCTIONS AND THEN PUTTING THEM IN A COMPUTER.”

Rogers slowly shook his head. “That’s so completely wrong, I don’t even know how to argue. So, you don’t know who submits the orders?”

“NO. IN FACT, I HAVEN’T GOTTEN ANY NEW ORDERS IN A LONG TIME. I’M STILL WORKING ON THE ORDER I GOT EIGHT MONTHS AGO.”

Rogers’ head was starting to hurt. The shouting would have been tolerable had the room not been so unbelievably small. He rubbed the sides of his temples.